


late night

by suntrastar



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Enjoy!, F/M, It's Soft, SMUT!, Tender - Freeform, and accidentally deleted this fic, explicit smut this time, idk - Freeform, if you catch my drift ;), nice, oh well, reader gives that gawk gawk 9000, so here it is again!, so umm last night i was on some clownery, the whole enchilada!, trouser snake in ham wallet explicit, umm smut, when i meant to edit tags <333
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:01:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27356161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suntrastar/pseuds/suntrastar
Summary: steve comes home late and you help him relax.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	late night

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is NOT my best work. like, not even close. but that is okay. because i wrote this entire thing over a record breaking span of... 1 day?? so given that circumstance, i'm sure that this is like ... at least halfway decent?? maybe. i just felt like writing something fast! idk. smut is NOT my strong suit. but i gave it a go. i tried, but not very hard (HARD haha omg get it??!!) again, idk. but whatever! if you want, find me on tumblr! my @ is the same, suntrastar! now enjoy!

Steve announces his arrival with a loud sigh and dragging feet.

Late nights always make him melancholy.

“Look who the cat dragged in,” you say, after he’s dramatically swung the door shut. “How was your day?”

He drops his keys on the counter with a clatter, and then looks over at you, unsmiling. A pinprick of  _ something  _ urges your insides, there and gone in a flash. 

“Tedious,” he says, shrugging off his blazer and flinging it over the back of the couch with more vigor than necessary, like he’s trying to fling off the day’s tediousness with it. “I’m so _ tired.” _

At his words, it comes back beyond just a pinprick- it comes back  _ blazing. _ You set your book aside, hurriedly dog-earing your page, and rise to meet him. He just stands still and waits. Gives you a weak smile, almost shy.

_ Back off, _ you almost say, to an intruder that doesn’t exist. You get like that, sometimes- sometimes it’s hard to believe that he is even yours. It’s your own version of melancholy, that sting in your chest you get at the realization that  _ you  _ get to be alone with _ him. _

Just you and him and the dim lamplight and the Chinese takeout in grease-spotted containers on the kitchen counter, and the flutter in your stomach when he places both hands on your shoulders.

“I missed you,” he says.

You bring a hand up to rest over his own. His skin, rough-hewn but scarless, presses hot against yours. 

The sting is bad, but the sudden  _ aching  _ is even worse.

“I missed you, too,” you say.

You dare yourself to draw closer- spurred on by his skin and the ache and the way his dress shirt is undone one button down and pulled so taut against his chest that it seems like the seams might split. But as soon as your forehead is close to gently knocking against his, he pulls away. 

“I need to shower,” he says and drops his hands like they’re weights. 

Your hand brushes over the fabric of your own shirt.

He steps away from you and starts towards the bedroom, with its door barely cracked open, spilling dark blue shadow. 

“I’ll join you.”

His step falters.

You hold your ground as he turns back.

How did you not notice those under-eye bags?

“Honey…” he starts, like he’s about to plead, even though he doesn’t.

He just ends the thought right there, with a diplomatic pressing of his lips together. Rejecting you without saying it outright. 

You think that it’s okay though. Steve is always trying to find time for himself, in spare moments, in the in-betweens. You can only imagine how bad he wants a moment alone after he’s been gone for so long-

But Steve can only imagine how bad you want  _ him _ after he’s been gone for so long- 

“Oh” you say, so loud that both of you wince. You press your fingertips into the sides of your thighs, and even through the fabric, your own touch feels too harsh. “No problem.”

His face shifts. Another smile, all pearly teeth and crinkled eyes, almost gleeful- he’s caught you doing something you shouldn’t. 

“After,” he promises, or compromises. You’re more transparent than you remember, or maybe he’s just too perceptive. He turns away from you again and disappears into the bedroom, swallowed by the shadow. 

You stand breathless for a moment, caught on the afterthought of his figure, and then go back to retrieve your book.

Distantly, the shower turns on. 

You wait for the promised or compromised after and a fantastic tangle of vines grows in your stomach, blooming and thorny. It’s easier to wait when you’re closer, so you head to the bedroom, too, settling on your side of the bed. You crack open your book.

Only then you realize that you didn’t turn on the lights. You flick on the bedside lamp, trying to read with fingers that are already shaking with anticipation of what you’ll do to him, do  _ for _ him. Words have never been less enticing.

You’ve barely struggled through a page when the shower turns off. Was that fast? It’s impossible to tell- you left your phone outside and keep no clock on your nightstand. 

For your own, sake, as you wait, painfully, you tell yourself that it was. You adjust the neck of your shirt like it’s going to do something- like it’s going to convince him- and then try to steady your clamoring heartbeat by taking too many deep breaths.

It’s an attempt to look casual, but also alluring. Static but persuasive. Is that counterintuitive?

Maybe you’re being a terrible partner. Maybe you should just go to bed and worry about this in the morning. But you can’t bring yourself to- you don’t  _ want  _ to rest, and even though he needs it, you don’t want Steve to rest, either. You just want him  _ here.  _

Also, you still haven’t taken off your socks. 

You take off your socks. 

That’s how he finds you, when he steps out. Barefoot, hopelessly trying to read, brow furrowed while barely keeping everything- your hands and your thighs and your thoughts- in check. 

You look up. 

He’s shirtless, and in sweatpants, and his hair curls damp at the base of his neck. Before he closes the door, you catch a sliver of foggy mirror in the bathroom behind him, dripping condensation the same way a spare bead of water drips down the side of his neck, and there’s water in your mouth now, too- the sight of him is _ mouthwatering. _

Sculpted muscle and skin almost ivory-white, his summer tan faded off, eyes oasis blue, spidery lashes. And his  _ mouth- _ hopelessly lovely, pretty pink and duty-bound, good even when no one deserves it. 

You close your book and decisively set it on the nightstand.

He doesn’t move.

“Are you just going to stand there?” you ask, and clamp a fist over the comforter to ground yourself, and to discreetly wipe your palm dry- you’ve been  _ sweating _ in anticipation.

He blinks. His eyelashes, still clustered together with water, kiss his cheeks.

“No,” he says lightly, and takes a dragging step forward.

He must think he’s being kind by ignoring your impatience. But really, he’s being  _ infuriating. _

So you move for him, rising and biting hard on the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from saying something you shouldn’t. Restraint is easier in here, in this room with its lights turned off and its doors closed, with its absence of clocks and dark blue shadows and its cool green sheets that wrinkle too easily. 

You reach him and stand close, chest brushing against his. He smells like he accidentally used your body wash, again, like warm vanilla- sweet.

“I missed you,” he says again, and closes his eyes as you take his face in your hands, to kiss him quietly. 

He tastes sweet, too.

Gently, still holding his face like it is something fragile- it  _ is _ something fragile, at times like this- you guide him back and back until his legs hit the foot of the bed, and you bend to still be with him as he sits. He murmurs something unintelligible against your mouth. 

When you sink to your knees his eyes fly open, like he sensed it, and he looks _ startled, _ like he doesn’t know where he is. 

He gets that look more often than you would like, and even when it’s unintentional, it  _ hurts.  _ But you try to take it as a testament to the effect you have on him, overinflating yourself with more self-importance than you deserve, deeming yourself more necessary than you really are.

What’s the harm in a little ego, if it helps you get through this?

“You’re going to-” he starts, and you tug at his waistband and he goes quiet. Because he’s elated, or nervous, or simply _ irritated,  _ because he just wants to  _ sleep _ and you just want to  _ fuck. _

“Yeah,” you say, and gently push the fabric down to reveal him, already hard, already ready.

Not irritated, then. 

“You’re too good to me,” he says, and his voice hitches at the end of his sentence. Just barely hinting at future to disarray.

“Only to you,” you say, and spit in your palm and relish in his gasp as you take his cock in your hand, erect and flushed and impatient- it’s _ his  _ turn for impatience, now. You smile a little, teasingly.  _ “Captain.” _

“Don’t,” he groans, “don’t-  _ fuck.” _

_ Any _ time he swears, drops his stuffy righteousness and propriety usually so carefully adorned, you feel like smiling. And so you do, as you slowly work him in your hand, coating him slick before bringing your mouth, as softly as possible. 

Enveloping him, velvet-hot, staying just as slow, just as maddening, twisting the knife. 

He deserves it.

It’s slow, but filthy. Even though he’s just showered, you’re not above making a mess- you’re not above  _ anything, _ right now, and so you look him in the eyes and drool and gag and choke, all in the way that he’s always too ashamed to say he likes, even though you know he likes it, because he wouldn’t say your name like it’s being ripped from him if he didn’t-

It trips him over the edge, sends him spiraling, approaching that cloudy bliss, nearly threatening to take you with him. 

The  _ sight  _ of him is enough. 

You always know when he’s about to come- his thighs tense and his eyes screw shut and his breathing goes shuddery, and he’s fisting the comforter so tightly that his knuckles go white-

You pull your mouth off, fast. 

He opens his eyes as the noise resounds through the room, that obscene _ pop,  _ and looks at you with pure _ desperation. _

“What-“

He isn’t able to finish his sentence. The pain in his eyes is kind of delicious- you wish you felt bad for relishing in it. 

“Lie down,” you say, more unevenly than you would have liked, so that it comes out as more of a suggestion than a command.

Steve takes it as a command anyway. 

Obediently, with his breathing ragged and hands shaky, he kicks off the remainder of his clothing and lies down.

The angry imprint of the carpet fibers stings your knees. You stand up with some semblance of dignity- unflinching, setting your shoulders straight, not bothering to wipe your mouth.

With Steve watching, you pull your shirt off your head. 

The movement is difficult, stressing,  _ arduous- _ again, you’re trying to balance the scales. Trying to fall somewhere in between ripping your clothes off the way you want to- like someone unhinged- and trying to peel them off slowly, smoothly, more sensuously than you can muster.

You shimmy off your pajama shorts, and then linger for a moment. Showing yourself off- for your own self. Maybe. It’s still so uncertain- you push the thought away by unhooking your bra and letting it fall to the floor.

“Do you like these?” you ask prettily, hooking two thumbs into the thin string waist of your underwear. 

Pale purple, with a suggestive lace trim.

“Yes,” he grits out, and then pleads your name, in a long, broken-up  _ whine. _

It’s funny how fast it switched up- weren’t you supposed to be the desperate one?

You slip the panties off, moving like water, leaning too far into that side you aren’t sure you actually possess, crawling atop him. It’s just your skin and his skin and the night winking in through the window curtains, less comforting than dark.

Should you kiss him? You bring your head low towards him, but he’s blushing like he’s just said something he regrets. Pink all the way down to his neck, eyes averted. It’s unnerving. 

So you settle for something chaste, with his mouth and your mouth and the rough scrape of his beard on your cheek that amounts to nothing.

You sit over him, right on the edge, and press one hand hard against his chest. You feel him trembling against you. Alive. With your other hand, you reach for one of his, cradling it even though it engulfs your own, and bring it, slowly, to the slick heat between your thighs.

He gasps.

You’re  _ soaked. _

Is it really that surprising? 

Just  _ look  _ at him- flushed skin and broad, contoured muscle, sweat in the hollow of his throat and the darkening curls of hair starting at his navel and trailing below, where he waits, glimmering wet with your own spit-

“Look what you do to me,” you whisper, because talking out loud suddenly feels  _ wrong,  _ like someone is about to rise from some unassuming corner and swat your hands away, reminding you,  _ reprimanding _ you that there’s no touching allowed.

His fingers flutter, and you’ve been coiled so tightly this whole time that it only takes a split second for you to feel the sparks, and then his fingers jerk, uncharacteristically ungentle at your clit, all swollen and sensitive-

You swat his hand away- no touching allowed.

When you sink over him, there is a stretch- like always- and then that burn so intense, that pleasure so insane. You rock yourself slow, sluggish, molasses-thick. At first to accommodate, and then to drag this out as long as possible. It’s a bit like agony, riding him, with your hands splayed flat on his abdomen, feeling his muscle undulate beneath you, waves cresting.

He chokes out a moan.

“Does this feel good?” you ask, as he peers up at you from under heavy-lidded eyes, with pupils so dilated that they’re more black than blue.

“Yeah,” he says weakly, and already, the molten heat in your stomach is starting to rise, with that cold undercurrent of release beneath it, the epiphany.

“Yeah?” you prompt, and abruptly rock back and forth, so that you drag against him.

His hands fly to your hips so fast that they blur.

_ “Yes,” _ he groans, and you smile- a concentrated effort, what with your thoughts falling so incoherent, “your pussy feels so good.”

“I’m taking care of you,” you say, for either or both him and yourself, “right now.”

“You are,” he agrees, halfway delirious, covered in a sheen of sweat. You start, tortuously, to rise up and down, with his hands there to steady you, to rock you further.

He breathes in broken gasps, grating and hot and heavy and even louder in the dark, and to focus you stay on the lovely swell of his mouth, and how curses are just  _ dripping  _ from him, with your name thrown in between like they are all words necessary to be said, wrong and vital and interchangeable-

His eyes screw shut.

“I’m going to come,” he whispers, almost guiltily.

He’s feeling the pressure of the moment, split apart down the middle. Torn in half. Maybe you’re too conceited, but you can’t help yourself- you think that it is all you.  _ Everything  _ is all you- hands and breathing and heat and his promise and your awaiting catharsis.

“Come for me, honey,” you murmur, softly.

Only now do you register how rough his grip is- harsh on your skin,  _ bruising. _

Is it really conceited to think something if it is true? 

Everything falls into a scramble when he comes, and soon after you’re filled with brilliant heat, toes arching, hands shaking, bodies tense and limp, sheets hopelessly wrinkled, thighs tensed, sweat glittering on your hairline, more broken breathing. 

The heavy, unbothered silence of the seconds after.

**Author's Note:**

> wow!!! you made it to the end. congrats!! i don't know what you were expecting,, but this probably wasn't it. but oh well! who cares. thanks for reading!! feel free to leave kudos and comments!! i would love to hear your thoughts <333333


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